


Lost Souls, Found

by lilian_ariana



Category: Berlin Station (TV)
Genre: Episode: S01E10 Oratorio Berlin, Episode: S02E09 Winners Right the History Books, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 22:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12994104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilian_ariana/pseuds/lilian_ariana
Summary: Just for once, Hector does the right thing. He plays knight in shining armour (well... in a nice suit and a shiny plane, anyway), orchestrates a rescue... and then what? After the plane takes off in Riyadh, before Hector turns up in Spain, his whereabouts remain unknown for quite some time inbetween seasons 01 and 02. Assuming that he and Faisal didn't immediately part ways, this is what might have happened.





	1. Prologue: The Right Thing

**Author's Note:**

> In one way or another, this story (minus the post-S02 epilogue, obviously) has been percolating in my mind since the end of S01, because a) it makes sense to me that Hector wouldn't just immediately ditch Faisal without money, ID, or any form of support after going to all that trouble to rescue him and b) I ship it, so there.
> 
> * A note on spoilers: The main part of the story is set post-S01. The epilogue, however, takes place at the end of and post-S02 and therefore contains spoilers for S02.
> 
> * A note on the timeline: I may have fiddled with the timeline a bit, because the offical timeline doesn't make sense and the discrepancies were driving me crazy. The show tells us that 4 months passed between S01 and S02. Going back from the German elections which were held on 24 Sep 2017, this means S01 supposedly ended sometime in May. This doesn't jibe with what we're shown on screen at all - S01E10 sure doesn't look like any May in Berlin I've ever seen (and I've seen quite a few). Judging from the weather, apparent temperatures and just budding leaves on the trees, I'd make it early April at the latest, so that's what I'm going with. That also makes more sense with what Esther says in S02E01 about Daniel arriving in Berlin "last winter" - generally, when a German says "winter", they tend to mean Dec-Feb.

Hector doesn't yet have much of a plan as he rapidly descends the stairs from the top of Teufelsberg, pausing just once, carefully staying out of sight, when he glimpses Julian's body on the ground with Patricia kneeling next to it. Guilt and regret – _more_ guilt and regret in addition to all he's been carrying already, a legacy of pain and destruction and Clare's blood on his hands – stop him in his tracks, but he pushes them back, back, somewhere down deep, because it's all about survival now and he needs to function enough to put as much distance as he can, as fast as he can, between himself and this city that's brought him nothing but ruin.

 

Just a scant few minutes ago it had seemed like it was all over – he'd been beaten and he knew it, and when Julian gave up and took what seemed to him the only possible way out, just for a second, he'd been tempted to do the same. But there's a difference between self-destructive and suicidal, and he'd only ever been the former. Not that he'd expected to live long once the Germans got their hands on him.

 

Now, though, Daniel has granted him a reprieve, a chance to walk away, despite all that he's done. He didn't expect it, but he'll take it – because at the end of the day, Hector DeJean is a survivor, self-destructive tendencies notwithstanding.

 

He's operating on autopilot as he makes his escape, picks up an emergency kit – one of several prepared and hidden months ago, just in case – and borrows enough cash to get him going, out of the country and off the radar. Geneva first, that much is clear. It's where he's stashed most of his retirement options, the only non-negotiable step in his exit strategy. And then... who knows?

 

It's not until he's almost at the Swiss border that the thought hits him, bubbling up from his subconscious to smack him in the face. He'd toyed with it once, weeks ago, but it hadn't been feasible then. Now though... now he has nothing to lose, nothing to keep him from acting on a crazy impulse, and the spark of an idea he'd pushed to the back of his mind begins to grow and take shape, bits and pieces coalescing into a fully formed plan by the time he walks into the bank and proceeds to set it in motion.

 

"Live with the mess you've made", Daniel had charged him, and this is how he'll start, by salvaging the only thing he can now that everything else has fallen to pieces. Clare and Julian are gone, but there's one life left he can still save, so that's what he'll do, whatever it takes.

 

Just for once, he'll do the right thing – because nobody else will.

 


	2. 01 - Second Chances

They don't talk much on the plane. There's so much to be said, so many questions to ask, but neither of them wants to break the comfortable silence. Instead, they gaze out of the windows and at each other, emotion too complex to put into words conveyed by wordless smiles. Eventually, Hector hands Faisal a bundle of clothes to change into in lieu of prison chic, and he quietly withdraws to what little privacy can be had aboard. When he returns, the marks imprisonment left on him are more easily visible, Hector's shirt and pants hanging off his too-thin frame and short sleeves baring an array of multicoloured bruises that speak of rough handling. Hector can only assume that there are more still hidden by the clothes, and for a moment, a dark look crosses his features and he wishes Michael Scheel had touched down in Riyadh carrying weapons more dangerous than sheets of paper. But what's done is done, and bringing it up would serve no purpose, so he schools his expression back into calm and says nothing, just passes over a jacket to add on top and conceal the reminders of what Faisal has been through.

 

It's dark outside when they land in what appears to be a small private airfield with little in the way of identifying features, and neither has any idea what time it might be, but exhaustion just seems to seep into their bones.

 

They all but sleepwalk off a borrowed jet they have no business being on, into a car neither of them owns, both of them quiet as Hector drives them down nameless streets to a rundown hotel promising anonymity if not much else in a country neither of them has ever called home.

 

"Where are we?", Faisal finally asks once they're safely ensconced in a shabby room.

"Switzerland", Hector replies. "Geneva. Nice and neutral. I know a guy here who can get you papers."

Faisal looks up at him from where he's sat down on the bed, frowning slightly. "Just you? Isn't anyone from the CIA coming to meet us?" His time locked up in a prison cell has done nothing to dim the perceptiveness befitting an intelligence officer, and he can tell that something's off about this rescue mission.

 

Something shutters in Hector's expression. "No. Just me, pulling some strings. Fuck the CIA. They weren't going to do shit to help you. I don't work for them anymore.", he says curtly. Faisal rises and steps up to him, questions visibly developing in his mind and tumbling out half-formed. "Then how...? Why...?" 

"It's a long story", Hector answers, and that's all he's willing to say right now. To preempt further questions, he leans in, sealing Faisal's lips with a kiss. He wasn't necessarily planning to go there, but as far as methods for avoiding unwanted questions go, it's a classic move for a reason and it works like a charm. After all, Faisal's hardly inclined to protest – this, he'll accept without any questions at all, responding to the kiss with an urgency that says he couldn't care less about anything else right now as long as Hector just keeps kissing him. His feelings haven't weakened a bit.

 

This isn't love, not for Hector. Love lay bleeding in his arms and died with Clare's final breath.

 

He shouldn't do this.

 

But Faisal is right there, warm and solid, grounding him in the here and now, leaning into Hector's every touch. He's sorely tempted to take it further, but it's late, and they're hungry and tired, and there'll be time to decide what to do about this later.

 

He breaks the kiss and takes a step back, and Faisal doesn't push him for more, just smiles at him softly as he asks: "Will you tell me that story, sometime?"

 

"Later. Maybe. For now, don't worry about it. Go take a shower, I'll go grab us some food... Tomorrow, I'll see about getting a new ID set up for you, maybe a few just in case, papers, money, all that shit, then we'll figure out what's next."

" _We_?" The hope in Faisal's tone is unmistakable, and it puts another smile on Hector's face. He wasn't necessarily planning that, either, but it feels right somehow.

"Yeah, we. That work for you?"

The way Faisal's smile brightens is answer enough.

 

When Hector returns, groceries in hand, Faisal is deeply asleep, hair still damp from the shower, sprawled out diagonally over the bed still fully dressed. Hector drops the bags by the door and pauses to study him quietly for a while, just revelling in the satisfaction it brings him to see that he actually did it: the right thing. He's a little surprised at just how good it feels. Turning off the lights, Hector beds down on an ancient couch that looks as uncomfortable as it is, for once inherently pleased with his day's work, no matter the cost.

 

In the coming days and weeks, Faisal will ask him a few times about how exactly he managed to get him freed. Hector's answers will remain vague. "Can't give away all my secrets", he'll say with an easy, fake smile. He'll never tell Faisal just how much he paid in cash, promises and favours called in to save him – it would mean admitting a weakness he's unwilling to afford.

 


	3. 02 - (Re)Connection

Hector may not have been planning it, not really have given it much thought at all, but nevertheless it's almost inevitable that they fall back into bed with each other, and it takes no time at all.

 

The very next night, just as Hector is about to rise from the bed they're sitting on and retire to the couch, he is stopped by the gentle pressure of Faisal's hand on his own and the weight of his gaze on him. Not a word is uttered and none is needed.

 

It's hardly surprising if Faisal has never stopped hoping, dreaming, no matter how impossible it seemed, that in some strange alternate reality, they might have a chance. If he spent night after night in that dingy cramped prison cell imagining himself back sliding between crisp white hotel sheets with Hector's strong hands and warm weight on him, sharing passionate kisses that set his blood on fire.

 

What he is asking is clearly written in that simple touch, in his eyes and every line of his body. Perhaps he would not push the issue if Hector refused him, would never bring it up again and quietly accept defeat after this one last rejection, no matter how much it hurts. But there is noone here now to judge them, no rules and regulations to forbid them, and anyway, why the hell not?

 

Hector just needs something, anything, to make him feel alive. A part of him died with Clare, and another with Julian and all their plans to bring whatever small change they could effect to the system that crushed them both.

Faisal's touch rekindles the spark that remained.

 

It's so very easy to give in, to give Faisal what he wants and take what is offered, accept this opportunity to lose himself in physical sensation and let the pleasure drive the darkness from his mind for a while.

 

Hector tells himself that it doesn't mean anything, that all it is is a way for two untethered souls to connect on a physical level and nothing more. He's well aware that he's lying to himself, not that that is anything new. He's not entirely sure what he feels, but he does feel _something_.

 

Almost of its own volition, Hector's left hand rises and curls around the back of Faisal's neck, fingers burying themselves in dark hair as he pulls him closer, capturing soft lips readily parting beneath his own, Faisal melting into his touch. Faisal's arms come up around him, drawing Hector down onto the mattress with him with unexpected strength, never breaking their kiss.

 

They find solace in each other, comfort and a reason to carry on. And if the flame burns brighter for one than the other, they are in silent agreement to ignore that imbalance, forbidding it to stand in their path – at least for the moment.

 

It's blissful oblivion holding Hector's demons at bay and driving memories of a squalid prison cell from Faisal's mind, replacing them with heat and human touch. After, a little weight seems to have lifted off both of them. They never talk about it, but they share the bed from that day on, in this and any other place they stay in.

 


	4. 03 - The Crimes of Hector DeJean

They don't stay anywhere for long. A week here, a couple there, then they're on the move again, switching cars and identities as they go. It comes as easily as breathing to both of them. There's no real rhyme or reason to their route, weaving back and forth across Europe, carefully skirting around Germany's borders. Hector doesn't think anyone's actively out looking for them, they should be fine as long as their papers hold up and they're not stupid enough to use their real names. But you never know. It's too soon to get complacent. And anyway: Being on the run together is one thing, settling down together quite another. It would say things he has no intention of saying.

 

The less they feel the pressure of imminent danger, of constantly having to look over their shoulders, the darker Hector's thoughts turn. Clare and Julian haunt him, and even the endorphins flooding his system at the height of extasy only provide an ever shorter respite. As weeks go by, he sinks deeper and deeper into self-hatred and depression, self-medicating with booze to an ever greater extent. Faisal watches and worries, but knows better than to ask. Hector will tell him when he's ready, if ever, and pushing him now would only push him away.

 

The time does come eventually. Confession is good for the soul, they say, and even though Hector is fairly sure that if such a thing as a soul exists, he's shredded his own into nigh unrecognizable scraps a long time ago, some small part of his subconscious decides to give it a try.

 

During one long dreary week in an abandoned flat in Prague, in sleepless nights fuelled by cheap booze, Hector DeJean confesses his sins. Chechnya and Morocco, Julian and Clare, Thomas Shaw, and everything before and in between. The laws he's broken, the pain he's caused, the people he's destroyed. Through it all, Faisal listens, a quiet presence at his side, offering no excuses or justifications, just an unflinching acceptance of all the darkness that pours out. And when Hector finally runs out of words, has spread out all the burdens he's carried for so long and sprawls exhausted and emotionally drained on the dirty floor, Faisal strokes his hair and calmly says: "It's okay, Hector. You're forgiven."

 

He didn't know how much he needed to hear those words until they're freely given. Hector remembers very little of the details of that week when he finally sobers up, but he feels a little lighter after, and he hates himself a little less.

 


	5. 04 - No More Secrets

There are no more secrets between them now, and it brings them closer – too close, perhaps, for Hector's comfort. He's not used to being this open, to allowing someone all the way behind the protective barrier of layer upon layer of closely kept secrets, permitted to glimpse the man behind all the masks. Julian got closer than anyone else, and even he never knew this much. It makes him uneasy, to have lowered his defenses, and there's room for far too much emotion now, though he tries his best to deny it.

 

There are quiet moments like now, when Hector gently trails calloused fingers over exquisite cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and Faisal smiles softly, his dark eyes brimming with unspoken feelings, leaning into Hector's every touch like it's a precious gift, and Hector knows with startling clarity that it needs to end. He holds Faisal's heart in his hands and it will only end up getting crushed.

 

What they have is not romance, he insists to himself time and time again, all they are is two lonely souls with nowhere else to go keeping each other company for a time. He's keenly aware that things look a lot different from Faisal's perspective – he may never voice his feelings aloud, but he doesn't bother hiding them anymore. Right now they're curled up under a blanket on the couch in a remote little cabin they're holed up in, a mug of hot tea cradled in Faisal's hands, while a fire crackles in the hearth and outside the rain pours down. He looks almost ridiculously content. His association with Hector cost him everything: His job, his home, everything he owned, even his very _name._ It almost cost him his life. And yet he smiles at Hector as if to say "What more do I need when I have _you_?" It's humbling, and flattering, and _far too much_.

 

Hector DeJean is poison to those he cares about, and even more so to those who care about him. There's too much darkness in him and it taints any who get too close. Faisal deserves to live in the light, finally free from all constraints, with someone who loves him as he should. Hector belongs in the shadows, and it is time he returned to them.

 

In his rare deep and honest moments of introspection, he recognizes that on some level, he is afraid. Afraid that if he stays any longer, allows this charade to continue, eventually it will cease to be one at all. Already, it doesn't feel entirely like a lie anymore.

 

He won't allow himself to feel more deeply, because he couldn't bear the pain of another loss. So he must end it, and soon, though he keeps finding excuses to put it off. But he knows that the longer he waits, the harder it will be on both of them. He can feel the walls closing in, and there's nothing he hates more than feeling trapped.

 


	6. 05 - Better This Way

They make it all the way down to Greece before Hector finds it in himself to go through with what he has for weeks now convinced himself needs to be done. The small whitewashed house they stay in was one of the final pieces of his just-in-case retirement plan, purchased years ago for next to nothing under an alias the CIA never knew about. He'll make it a gift now, an apology of sorts, though a feeble one for the broken heart he'll leave behind, but he doesn't feel like he belongs here. Not now, not like this. Perhaps he's just punishing himself. Perhaps after all he's done, all the pain he's caused, he doesn't deserve to be loved, doesn't deserve to give this a chance. Maybe, one day, if he ever finds a way to atone for his sins, free his conscience from all the guilt... He quashes that thought with all the ruthlessness he can muster. No. He will leave, and set them both free. It's the only way.

 

Faisal knew this day would come, has been seeing the signs for a while and felt Hector pull away from him emotionally just when it seemed they were finally reaching a deeper connection. When the time comes, when what he knows in his heart will be their last day comes to a close, he doesn't let his awareness show. He smiles and nods and pretends everything's fine, even though _fine_ is a far cry from what he feels. But he doesn't want their last hours together to be filled with anger and arguments, because he knows Hector has made up his mind and there's no convincing him to stay. Not now. Perhaps, one day, there might be a chance. Perhaps he just needs time. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he lets him go, in time he might come back to him.

 

And so, hours later as Hector quietly slides out of bed to get dressed and collect his already secretly packed effects, Faisal forces himself to lie still in the darkness, eyes closed and breathing even, feigning sleep until he hears the front door click softly shut and almost inaudible footsteps fade away down the street. Only then does he allow the tears to come.

 

Hector leaves him without an explanation and without a goodbye, sneaking away like a thief in the night. All he leaves behind is this: A suitcase full of cash, the deed to the house, and a hastily scribbled note that reads

 

_I'm sorry._

_It's better this way._

 

"Better for _whom_?!", Faisal mutters angrily at the empty room when he reads it, crumpling the offending piece of paper in his clenched fist. Having expected this moment makes it no less painful and bitter.

 

Later, he will carefully smooth out the note and put it away somewhere safe, a tiny treasure chest filled with mementos, palpable proof that these few precious months weren't all just fantasy.

 

He closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and pushes the pain away. Once it's locked tight in that special part of his heart that has belonged to Hector since the day they first met, he gazes around himself with newfound calm, assessing his options. This place suits him, and Hector would know how to find him here, left it to him for that very reason perhaps. _Yes_ , he thinks, this is where he'll stay. He can manage to make a life of sorts here.

 

If Hector ever chooses to return, he'll be here, waiting.

And if he doesn't... well. He's no stranger to being alone, with only dreams and memories to keep him company.

 

Miles away, in the dry heat of Southern Spain, Hector has returned to an old alias noone should be looking for and builds himself a new history of lies. It's funny, in a way, how all his efforts to expose facts and truth in the end have led him to even more secrets and lies. Funny, in a sad and fucked up way. Much like himself, if he thinks about it, though he prefers not to.

 

It was surprisingly easy to charm de Vega, who has long since moved on from his old infatuation, into allowing him the use of the villa, just for old times' sake. Turns out Hector still knows the right buttons to push. He makes himself at home, and suppresses all stray little thoughts of another home he might have had.

 

In the evening, he takes a drive into town and finds himself a charming little bodega where he enjoys what he has decided will be his last drink – not so much out of concern for his health, or because sobriety is a necessary part of his new persona, but because in vino, unfortunately, veritas, and he's about had it with unwelcome self-reflection for the time being. Flirting comes naturally no matter what name he uses, and he leaves the place with a beautiful woman on his arm, a complete stranger who knows nothing about him and never will, who isn't looking for a deep emotional connection, just shared hours of mindless lust. As he loses himself in her luscious curves and supple sun-kissed skin, in the simple pleasures of no-strings-attached sex, Hector tells himself it's exactly what he wants and all he could possibly need.

 


	7. Epilogue - Part 1: Anything But This

 

It's been three months and sixteen days since Hector left when Faisal hears his name on TV, turns to stare disbelievingly at the picture shown on screen, and the news he's only been half following suddenly becomes the focal point of his existence. _Hector is back in Berlin_ is the first thing that strikes him – finally, after months of wondering where he might have gone, here is the answer, but why on Earth would he go back? – followed by _Hector is named as the prime suspect in a political assassination._ What? In what world does that make sense? Faisal is hardly naive enough to believe it impossible that under certain circumstances, Hector would be capable of such a thing, but what could he possibly have to gain from this? There's no personal motive he can see, and the idea of him doing it on behalf of the CIA is simply ludicrous. For hours, transfixed by the screen and the infuriating lack of further information it provides, he turns it over and over in his mind, thoughts swirling incessantly. No. He just doesn't believe it. There has to be more to this story, there _has_ to be. He knows Hector, thinks he knows him anyway, and _that_ is not the man he knows. Eventually, he dozes off right there in front of the TV, convinced that he's right.

 

He wakes to news coverage of increasingly vociferous protests outside the US embassy in Berlin, and his heart skips a beat at the sheer rage in the voices and faces of the swelling crowd. Is Hector in there right now, listening to them shout? His first impulse is to get on the next flight to Berlin, just to be closer to him, but what could it possibly accomplish? It's too dangerous, and there's nothing he could do to help, all he can do is sit here and watch, eaten up by worry, barely daring to move away for a single minute while the situation just seems to get worse, as if just by keeping his eyes on what's going on he might somehow affect what is happening thousands of miles away.

 

Hours go by, evening falls, and still nothing, nothing new, nothing that will end this nightmare. Cameras focus on the ever larger, more violent mob, the news crews camped out in front of the embassy to capture images of burning flags and thrown projectiles, protesters clashing with police and jumping the barricades, a few arrests amidst the yelling and chaos, the crowd whipping itself into an ever rising frenzy. And then... he jumps up at seeing the camera zoom in as the door opens and Hector steps out. Turns himself in to the German police. Just for a second – one single, tiny second – Faisal closes his eyes in despair. In that second, a gunshot rings out in Berlin, and reverberates around Europe to slam straight into Faisal's heart.

 

He doesn't notice how much time passes as his eyes remain glued to the screen without truly seeing, his heart hammering out denials with every single beat, but it feels like an eternity. And then: _"Died en route to hospital"_ , someone's saying on the news, and an unstoppable wave of pain slams into him, knocking him to his knees, forcing all the air out of his lungs so that what he wants to scream loud enough they'll hear it in Berlin comes out as nothing but a whisper: "No. Please, no." No other words cross his lips because he can't remember how to breathe, but they chase each other in his head: _Please, not this. Anything but this. Tell me it's not true, it can't be true, it can't..._ – and at that, a small corner of his mind that has not yet been swept under by the outpouring of grief threatening to drown him, a part that says _hold on, this is the CIA we're dealing with, you can't just take everything you see and hear at face value_ , sits up and takes notice, and at a feverish pace constructs a different narrative, because What _if_ ? What if it's _not_ true, what if it's all some sort of elaborate ruse, just smoke and mirrors and convenient lies? Could they? _Would_ they? Of course they could, it would hardly be the first time an intelligence agency has faked someone's death, and if he was right, if Hector was innocent and they knew it but had no means to prove it, with the Germans issuing ultimatums and a mob outside baying for blood, with no other way to save him and appease them all... it's not entirely inconceivable that they would. He clings on to that thought with all he has, because he just can't accept that this is it, this is how it truly ends, no more second chances, no more miracles.

 

Over the following days, hour after hour – he can't remember when he last slept – he tracks down every last piece of news coverage of Hector's death he can find on the internet, watches every angle from every camera again and again until he no longer flinches when the gunshot rings out, when Hector falls, studies them frame by frame over and over in search of the minutest little clue that might support his crazy theory. He finds one finally, maybe, possibly, in the look on Hector's face: There is no surprise there, no shock – _he knew it was coming, knew this would happen_ – just the expression of a man resigned to his fate. But _is_ it a clue? Is it just wishful thinking, is he fooling himself, seeing what he wants to see? Is it, instead, nothing but an indication of all the self-hatred and guilt Hector has been carrying around for so long finally coalescing into a true wish for and quiet acceptance of death? He doesn't want to believe it, but he knows in his heart that that, too, is not impossible. In the end, there's just no way to tell for sure. And there wouldn't be, not if they did it right. If they did it at all.

 

On the fifth day, he forces himself to stop. He's going to drive himself mad at this rate, not eating, not sleeping, so caught up is he in this obsession with a desperate unprovable idea based, at the heart of it, on nothing more than hope and denial, a strict refusal to accept what the world would have him believe.

 

He'll give it one year.

If he hasn't heard from Hector a year from now, or come across some piece of conclusive evidence proving that he's alive, he'll take the risk and go to Berlin. He'll visit Hector's grave and say goodbye, and try to find a way to move on. But until then, he'll hold on to hope, no matter how foolish it seems.


	8. Epilogue - Part 2: One Last Miracle

It takes another two weeks after that, but four months and five days after Hector left, eighteen days after the whole world watched him die, the universe grants Faisal Al-Fakeeh one last miracle. The knock on the door, in an oh-so-familiar pattern, comes on a sunny October afternoon, and somehow he just _knows_.

 

He runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep, shaky breath, and counts to ten in a wasted attempt to calm himself down before rushing over to the door. All the emotions - the pain, the anger, the grief, the loneliness, the desperate hope - that he's been trying to keep suppressed all this time come rushing back in all at once. He almost tears the door off its hinges as he rips it open, and he wants to laugh and cry and yell and rage and, quite irrationally, _kill_ him for what he's put him through when he finally, _finally_ , lays eyes on Hector standing outside. But his vision is blurred by unshed tears, he couldn't stop the brilliant smile forming on his face even if he wanted to and the only words he can find are: "I've been waiting for you."

 

One of the tears he's been trying to keep from falling courses slowly down his cheek, and Hector moves almost automatically to brush it away. The tears fall even more freely after that, but the smile doesn't dim a bit, and he can't resist adding: "You look good for a dead man."

 

Hector looks exhausted, really, like he's aged a decade in the past few months, but there's a tired smile on his face as he takes off the sunglasses and meets his eyes.

 

"Yeah, it's kind of a long story...", he says. "Can I come in?"

 

It's the most ridiculous question Faisal has ever heard, and he steps aside without a word, because they both know that the answer to that could be none other than _yes_.

 

"So...", he begins as they walk into the living room, the tears finally subsiding, forcing a lighthearted tone to avoid saying something unbearably sappy, "how was your funeral?"

 

That gets a laugh out of Hector, quite possibly one of the first true, honest laughs in months.

"Fuck if I know", he replies, "I wasn't there."

 

They come from different worlds, one born in a cold and rainy Seattle winter, the other under the scorching heat of the desert sun, but now, in a way, they are the same. They are two men without identities who can never go home, using assumed names because their own are burnt to ash with the remnants of their former lives. They are cut loose and cast adrift, holding on to each other as the only thing that feels real, and perhaps that is enough. Their pasts are all gone now, but the future is wide open. And maybe, just maybe, it's not so foolish to think that they might have one together after all.

 


End file.
